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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043246">Memories Are Made of This</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazypaladin/pseuds/lazypaladin'>lazypaladin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Feminist Themes, Gossip, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Menstruation, Mercy Killing, Misogyny, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Slavery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad Ending, Sexism, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vomiting, War Crimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:21:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazypaladin/pseuds/lazypaladin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Carla Boone has been defined by everyone around her both in life and in death. This is her story, from her perspective. This story lays bear Carla's deepest desires and worst fears -- and asks the question, "Would she have welcomed the death her husband chose for her?"</p>
<p>(Please refer to additional tags for trigger warnings.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carla Boone/Craig Boone, Carla Boone/Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Memories Are Made of This</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>___________________________________________________________________________</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What should I do about the wild and the tame? </p>
<p>The wild heart that wants to be free, and the tame heart that wants to come home.”</p>
<p>-- Jeanette Winterson, <em> Lighthousekeeping </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>___________________________________________________________________________</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The thin tarp covering the doctor’s tent does very little to block out the late August sun, which beats down on Carla’s back in waves like a titan’s hot breath. Despite having gulped down a pitcher of lukewarm water before leaving her apartment, her throat is drier than Death Valley -- not that she’s ever been farther from Vegas than she is at this very moment. Still, she’d seen the holotapes during her youth in the vault. Holotapes were all she had then. What does she have now?</p>
<p>The doctor confirms what she already knows, what she’s known for at least 15 hours now. <em> What am I even doing here? </em> she wonders privately. She can feel her heartbeat pounding in her head and thrashing against her skull. She wants to scream, but it seems her veins are doing that for her. She needs a drink. More than that, she needs some sleep.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The night before was the longest she’d ever had. First, she had a late dinner with her husband, Craig. Then she washed the dishes. Next, she folded laundry while her husband took a shower. She managed to finish before him, and she waited. His shower seemed to take ages. Her impatience grew. <em> Not now </em> , she told herself. <em> Wait until he leaves. </em></p>
<p>When her husband finally stepped out of the bathroom, he took his time getting dressed, watching her as he did so. He remarked on how uncharacteristically quiet she was. “I’m just tired,” she said, unconvincingly.</p>
<p>He didn’t push. He never did, and she liked that about him. Instead, he sat down next to her on the edge of their bed in silence. Silence wasn’t unusual for Craig, but it was unusual for Carla, and thus, it was unusual for their marriage. It created an oppressive tension that weighed heavily in the air between them. <em> Say something </em> , Carla told herself, because she knew Craig suspected something was wrong, and she knew it would eat at him all night if he went to work without any resolution. <em> It isn’t fair to him. Say something! </em> But she couldn’t think of anything <em> to </em> say. Carla Boone, who had been told by complete strangers her entire life that she talked entirely too much, was at a loss for words.</p>
<p>And suddenly, miraculously, Craig spoke first. “I was thinking maybe we could go to the Strip for a weekend away soon,” he said.</p>
<p>Despite her melancholy, Carla felt her heart jump to her throat, before descending into a pit. “Oh!” she said without hiding her surprise. She knew this would not be an option, however. Not at the moment. “But who will take over your shifts?”</p>
<p>“I’ll ask Manny to cover the night shifts. I’m sure Ranger Andy can handle keeping watch during the day. Not like much happens around here, anyway.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to impose on him… I’m not sure it’s a good idea, Craig. He’s got a limp and I just wouldn’t feel right.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Craig pointed out.</p>
<p>“So am I, believe me, but that doesn’t change how I’d feel about it.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you want this, Carla?”</p>
<p>“I do, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She couldn’t tell him why, and it pained her.</p>
<p>Craig stared at the wall, his expression grim. “Fine,” he said. “I need to get to work. Good night, Carla.” He got up and planted a quick kiss on her head before making his way for the door. He reached for the handle and paused. He turned back to her and said, “I wanted to do this for you, you know.” And with that, he left.</p>
<p>Is that what he thought was wrong? Did he think she was giving him the silent treatment because she wanted a vacation? Because she missed her old life? Carla scowled at the thought of him assuming she could be so petty. She told herself that’s what she hated: the assumption, and not the notion that it was in all likelihood a fair conclusion to reach.</p>
<p>Regardless of what she wanted, she couldn’t afford to be distracted. Her day had been spent trying to ignore a notion that had been gnawing at her for over a week, until she finally broke. So she got down on the floor and reached under the bed for her old suitcase, the one she’d packed with everything she’d owned before leaving behind her life in New Vegas. It had been collecting dust since she and her husband moved to Novac eight months ago.</p>
<p>She opened her suitcase and braced herself for the instant wave of nostalgia. On top was her Pip-Boy 3000, which she hadn’t worn since she left the vault nine years ago. <em> Good riddance </em>, she’d thought when she stepped foot outside for the first time. Of course removing the hefty thing from her wrist was the first thing she did. But she could never bring herself to sell it, like many others of the vault dwellers did before Mr. House seized them for resale at the Vault 21 gift shop. As one of the first occupants to leave the vault, Carla managed to avoid having hers seized. Perhaps she kept it as a trophy, then.</p>
<p>Underneath the Pip-Boy was her Vault-Tec issued vault suit. She ran her fingers over the mustard yellow ‘21’ on its back before moving it out of the way to get to the contents beneath it. Next was her favorite dress of the few she owned, which she had purchased with her first paycheck from her job as a waitress for The Tops Bar and Grill. Like most clothing for sale in the Mojave Wastes, it was second-hand (or third, or fourth), but it was hers, and it was the bold yet sweet color of honey. She’d worn it at her wedding years after purchasing it. In a rare moment of poetry, Craig had told her it made her dark brown eyes pop, “in a warm sort of way.” She wasn’t sure why she’d never taken it from her suitcase to hang with the others. Maybe it was because it was too good for this place.</p>
<p>Carla gently moved the dress aside and came to the bottom pocket of her suitcase. She unzipped it and pulled out the relic she’d been searching for: the Vault Girl Fertility KitTM. Every pubescent girl in Vault 21 was given one of these as a “welcome” gift for their first menstrual cycle, just as sure as every kid turning 10 saw their first Pip-Boy. It was metallic and resembled a pre-war laptop, only bulkier and built like a briefcase. She popped it open unceremoniously and, to her surprise, the neglected thing turned on immediately, the screen lighting up with bright green letters: “L O A D I N G . . .”</p>
<p>The familiar green outline of Vault Boy appeared, striking his signature ‘thumbs up’ pose, only donning a doctor’s lab coat and stethoscope instead of the traditional vault suit. Carla had always found it ironic that the mascot for the Vault <em> Girl </em> Fertility Kit was just another version of Vault Boy. “GREETINGS,” came the kit’s robotic voice. It reminded her of the protectron the vault had in order to keep the peace -- not that it ever proved necessary. “IT HAS BEEN . . . 13 YEARS AND . . . 2 MONTHS AND . . . 5 DAYS SINCE YOU LAST TRACKED YOUR CYCLE. HOW CAN VAULT-TEC ASSIST YOU TODAY?”</p>
<p>A dialog box replaced Doctor Vault Boy on the screen, and Carla scrolled through the options until she came to ‘pregnancy test’. The system took a second to process her request. “VAULT-TEC THANKS YOU FOR CHOOSING US TO ASSIST WITH YOUR FERTILITY NEEDS. THANKS TO OUR PATENTED STATE-OF-THE-ART REPRODUCTIVE TECHNOLOGY, THE TEST WE ARE ABOUT TO ADMINISTER WILL ONLY TAKE 60 SECONDS. THAT’S A WHOLE 12.78 MILLISECOND REDUCTION IN PROCESSING TIME THAN OUR CLOSEST COMPETITORS OFFER! WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR HOW OUR Vault Girl Fertility KitTM Liquid Excretory Product of the Urethra Application Stick WORKS?”</p>
<p>“No,” Carla groaned while making her selection.</p>
<p>“VERY WELL. PLEASE HOLD FOR THE DISBURSEMENT OF THE Vault Girl Fertility KitTM Liquid Excretory Product of the Urethra Application Stick.” A tray about an inch wide slid out of the left side of the kit. Carla grabbed the pregnancy test from it. “PLEASE RETURN THE APPLICATION STICK TO THE DESIGNATED TRAY FOR PROCESSING IMMEDIATELY AFTER USE.”</p>
<p>Carla followed the instructions, and the results appeared as quickly as promised. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to look at them. Not right away. She’d be fooling herself if she said it wasn’t so she could extend the duration of not knowing, of only suspecting. But she realized that, in the end, the not knowing would only torment her further.</p>
<p>Finally, she steeled herself and looked down at the monitor for the results. The screen confirmed her suspicions: “CONGRATULATIONS!” It read. “YOU ARE APPROXIMATELY ONE MONTH AND 13 DAYS PREGNANT.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carla had thought that knowing the truth for certain would have dug out the pit in her stomach. But she still feels it, heavier than ever, and now rolling around inside her. It was only partially dug up, loosened from its spot at her core and now free to roam around her digestive tract, worse than ever. No amount of retching throughout the night before was able to settle her stomach. She feels the need to vomit once more, so she swallows, hard and dry. She winces from the discomfort.</p>
<p>“Can I have a drink?” she manages to croak.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid my liquor license was suspended years ago,” says the doctor.</p>
<p>One of the doctor’s two hired guards rolls his eyes and speaks up. “Uh, Ada, I’m pretty sure the lady just wants some water.”</p>
<p>“I told you, it’s <em> Dr </em>. Straus,” says the doctor.</p>
<p>“Right,” says the guard.</p>
<p>Dr. Straus turns back to Carla. “You know where the well is.” She tilts her head back and motions it towards the McBrides’ shack.</p>
<p>Suddenly, Carla’s head begins to spin. She doubles over as a sharp pain starts at the base of her skull, as if it’s been slammed on concrete, and shoots down to the tips of her fingers and toes in shockwaves.</p>
<p>“Ada,” the guard cautions.</p>
<p>“Ugh, fine. Take one of my tickets and fetch the girl some water,” Dr. Straus concedes. “You owe me a ration ticket for this one, Mrs. Boone.”</p>
<p>Another bolt of pain strikes Carla as unbearable as the first, and she seizes up so fast that she collapses down from the chair and into the dirt.</p>
<p>“Psycho withdrawals?” she hears Dr. Straus ask. “I know ‘em when I see ‘em.”</p>
<p>If she had it in her, Carla would have shot the woman her meanest glare. Instead, she writhes in the dirt as the pain continues, each stab worse than the last. Just as she begins privately wishing for death, anything to stop the pain, the guard returns with a jug of water. He lifts her head and cradles it before tilting the jug against her lips. Carla gulps down the water and instantly regrets it as the nausea returns with a vengeance. She’s powerless to stop herself from retching, water gushing out of her mouth in fountain-like spurts. Each heave is followed by what feels like a bullet to the head, and it’s as if her brain might burst out from her tightening skull. She realizes she’s dehydrated, that the water she had earlier that morning was not enough to make up for the water she’d lost to her nausea the night before. “Please,” she begs, but it’s too painful to speak.</p>
<p>She barely makes out the guard’s deep voice asking, “What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“Out of my way,” says Dr. Straus.</p>
<p>“How do you even know--”</p>
<p>Carla feels a small pinch, and then, nothing.</p>
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